


without a trust

by emkayss



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, a startling lack of plot, featuring adam overthinking and vague sex, kind of sad fluff?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 04:40:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4334246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emkayss/pseuds/emkayss
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Adam doesn't really know what he wants and he and Ronan toe the line between friends and something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	without a trust

**Author's Note:**

> please forgive me for my terrible characterization !!! and for the lack of plot !!
> 
> title from the shins' song new slang, which I played on repeat while writing this. (and I highly recommend you listen to it while reading.)

Adam Parrish doesn't know what it feels like to not be running.

He doesn't think he has any kind of off switch, doesn’t think he ever got the chance to assemble one from all the parts of him that fell apart. He’s too fragmented now, too far away. Sometimes he wonders if he started working as a mechanic so he can figure out the technique that’ll put him back together. 

But he figures that out; there’s only so much he can do, only so much he can fix, even with Cabeswater drawing its cold finger down his spine when the wind blows, whispering birdsong into his ear. He can’t move his hands fast enough, can’t break into a sprint before there’s a gust of something spreading him thin again. 

It’s kind of an ironic thought though, that his hand traces the shape of the wind out the window of the BMW, head tipped back against the seat. There’s a startling absence of cars on the I-65, maybe because it’s midmorning on a thursday and everyone’s out doing Henrietta-like things, flipping to the next page in an old decrepit textbook or sweeping the dust off the front step of the courthouse or booting up an ancient tractor. 

He feels the wind catch his hair where it flies through the window, he hears the roar of it through his ear. He doesn’t want to say he feels alive; he doesn’t remember the last time breath came without a forethought, can’t recall the difference between awake and asleep other than that when his eyes are closed, when his heart is finally able to slow down to a brisk walk rather than an all-out sprint, he’s not aware. 

He lets his head loll to the side to catch Ronan glancing his way, eyebrows drawn in what Adam guesses is concern, and he’s surprised that Ronan’s able to do that with his features until he isn’t. Until he remembers Ronan’s been hiding everything he’s felt since Niall Lynch died, since Ronan found his body. 

Adam pulls together all the Gansey in him and tries to grin back, but he knows without even thinking that it’s tired, sagging at the corners like ice cream melting in a sunny afternoon. He knows the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. 

_What do you want, Adam?_  

He wants to stop wanting. 

.

There’s never really a definitive moment when Adam can sling his arm across Ronan’s shoulders and say _meet my boyfriend, Ronan Lynch._ They grow together, in both senses of the phrase. They mature individually, but they wind together, branches and limbs intertwining until _alone_ is synonymous with _together,_ and then, after a while, coming together means the same thing as coming home.

.

Cabeswater is to their backs, they're lost in the magic of the trees and the sweetness of a dark blue sky. Henrietta's below them, beneath them, around them, and everything that's in it: Aglionby and their stupid blue pullovers with their stupid crest stuck to the chest like a brand still hot and sizzling from the fire; 300 Fox Way and its porch that whines when Adam sits down on the front steps, 300 Fox Way and its amalgam of nail polish colours and homemade dresses and herbal teas and predestined futures, a vision of all the things Adam's run into since Blue.

But forget Blue, forget 300 Fox Way, forget Gansey and Noah and Glendower and Greenmantle, because for this moment, for this infinitesimal sliver of time, the stars are only reaching out for them. 

For two boys, _the magician and the greywaren,_ two instruments in Glendower’s revival. Two parts of a whole. 

But it’s mostly Ronan, Adam thinks. Ronan with his tattoo that curls around Adam's fingertips and the spot on the back of his neck that's always a little pink. He puts his hand up to his brow, palm up as if to shield the sun. The stars are a little too bright tonight.

Adam, even with Cabeswater running through him like a second set of blood, believes he’s a means to an end. Believes he’ll never be anything but a tool, something used and thrown back to the dirt.  

But you can convince him of this: the stars, the sky, the breeze blowing through Cabeswater’s trees; it all belongs to them.  

. 

There's something about Ronan Lynch that Adam can't quite put his finger on, something transient, something that isn't quite of this world. He wouldn’t use the word transparent, but it’s like he’s only halfway there sometimes, like the light hits him and filters through. He reminds Adam of the cracked, dirty window in Monmouth, light catching the dust no one’s ever bothered to chase out. 

Adam finds him slumped against the wall outside his door one night.

It’s not the first time, it’s far from it, but even then – arms wrapped around his legs, head tipped forward so the bones at the top of his spine are visible – he doesn't quite look of the earth. Adam doesn’t want to say ethereal; Ronan Lynch is about as far away as you can get from angelic.  

Even so, Ronan’s built from something larger than himself. He’s borne of the dirt lining Adam’s fingernails, the clay shot into the sky under the Pig’s spinning wheels. He’s the clouds that are so dark it looks like midnight’s come early. He’s swirling wind; knifing towards you until he can’t anymore and he’s a touch, a caress, careful and familiar and somehow everything you’ve ever longed for.  

Adam digs his keys out of his messenger bag and shoulders the door open, leaving it that way so Ronan can wander in when he manages to get up. He dumps his bag on the floor and tugs off his dirty jeans in favour of a pair of ancient sweats that are thin around his knees and fall somewhat short of his ankles. 

There’s an essay due for American Lit at the end of the week. There’s a Latin quiz on three new irregular verbs. There’s a chemistry exam, a presentation in euro history, there’s always something that needs to be prepared for, to be done. 

So he settles in at his desk, textbook open and pencil ready. He knows his back is going to hurt like hell from the chair, knows it’s going to be a challenge to drag himself out of bed in the morning. If he even makes it to bed. But none of this is new; he’s put himself through this so many times and he’s going to do it several times more before he graduates. 

Adam’s already rubbing at his eyes when Ronan finally lumbers in and shuts the door behind him. He’s not in much better shape than Adam is. 

“You’re okay if I sleep here tonight?” he asks.  

Adam takes the moment to look him up and down. He takes all Ronan gives him: black shirt loose around his waist; jeans tight around his thighs and calves. He’s ragged, but Ronan’s a master of the art of hiding it. His raggedness is simply a part of him. He hides it in plain sight.

“Yeah, yeah, go ahead. Take whatever you want,” Adam says, lifting his eyes just to glance at his watch. Midnight. Not too bad. 

He ducks his head to start his work again just as hands are on his shoulders and thumbs are digging into his neck, and he turns his head just as Ronan leans down to press their lips together. 

The kiss is quiet. Tired. It lasts a moment before they’re both pulling away, Ronan leaving smaller kisses on Adam’s lips as if he doesn’t want the contact to end. He doesn’t want the contact to end. 

“Come to bed soon,” Ronan whispers, fingers tight in Adam’s hair.

Adam nods. Leans up a bit to kiss Ronan’s bottom lip. “Goodnight.” 

“Sweet dreams, Parrish.”  

Ronan is -- despite popular belief -- still human. Sleep is still that elusive antagonist that he can never seem to catch unless he’s in the company of Adam and his meager supply of personal effects. Sometimes, and Adam knows this from observation and experience rather than conversation, Monmouth is just too loud. It’s not Gansey, really, it’s all the things that come with him. He’s a prepackaged set. You get Gansey, you get the wealth of information and energy and visions of Glendower unearthed. 

All Adam wants, all he needs, is to drag Ronan under with him. It's harder than it sounds; the waves rise and swell and crest but they fall just before Adam can catch them.

.

Adam Parrish doesn’t know what it’s like to slow down.

The concept of taking a night off and relaxing is somewhat foreign to him. But he’s not opposed to the idea. 

He’s not opposed to curling up with Ronan on his bed in Monmouth, not quite sleeping, not quite awake. Somewhere in between.  

Ronan sits up from where he’s lying down, his fingers soft where they rest in Adam’s hair. He smiles and he pauses and his smile widens into a grin before he ducks to press his lips to Adam's, his fingers warm where they linger at the line of Adam's jaw. Adam feels a bit like he’s melting, a bit like all of him is slowly coming back together. He rests his hand on the back of Ronan’s neck, thumb rubbing into what’s left of his hair. 

Ronan kisses with his jaw, Adam figures. He’s forced to catch himself on the wall when he stumbles back, Ronan’s lips still on his. There’s a moment where they get caught up in the haze of each other’s eyes, how swollen Ronan’s lips are from kissing, and Adam’s lifting his hand up to his mouth, fingers just about there, when there’s warmth and wet on his skin, just below the skin of his ear. The sound that comes out of Adam’s mouth is horrendous, dipping lower when Ronan closes his lips and starts to suck. Adam tips his head to the side, arms tight around Ronan’s shoulders now, and Adam kind of wants to curse every Welsh king he’s ever heard of when Ronan moves to lap at what of Adam’s collarbone is available. 

Adam pushes at Ronan’s shoulders a bit, just enough so he can tug at the bottom of his shirt to pull it off, lobbing in the direction of his dresser. Ronan doesn’t hesitate, doesn’t take a second to look at Adam’s pale stretch of skin and bones, he just tucks his mouth under Adam’s jaw, just under his chin to kiss at him. Adam doesn’t have a choice but to tilt his chin up, surging up and down with the rhythm of Ronan’s jaw. 

Adam lets himself enjoy it for a second before he pushes them forwards toward the bed. He lands on his back, head just missing the pillow, Ronan on his hips. 

“You need to take your shirt off,” Adam says. His voice is breathy and a little high pitched but he finds he doesn’t really care when Ronan leans back on his heels and pulls his tank top off. Both of them are lanky, but Ronan’s a little broader than Adam, his features a little sharper. Ronan looks like whoever carved him out of marble was either a little too angry or a little too ardent; the strokes of his body are wide and unyielding, his chest heaving with breath Adam didn’t realize had come short. 

Adam leans up to kiss him again and takes the opportunity to flip them over, so Adam can settle his waist between Ronan's legs. He's not nearly as good at the wet, open mouthed kisses Ronan leaves, but he'll make his attempt, and soon enough Ronan’s a gasping mess beneath him. Maybe he’s not that bad at it. 

He moves his hands down Ronan’s sides, pausing to undo the button of his jeans. He glances up at Ronan — _is this okay?_ — who looks down at Adam and says “Just take my fucking pants off already.” 

He slides Ronan’s jeans and boxers down his legs until they bunch at his ankles, and then comes back in to balance himself at Ronan’s waist. He dips his neck so he can run his tongue up the inside of Ronan’s thigh, his kisses thick, sloppy, wet, with just enough teeth to leave a reminder. 

“Quit teasing, Parrish,” Ronan manages, his voice hoarse, but he reaches and wraps his fingers in Adam’s hair like he’s in it for the long haul. Which he is, and is a hundred percent okay with, because the shiver that sparks through his body when Adam’s mouth is on him, around him; he’s wet and warm and everything Ronan had ever dreamed about. His tongue is what Ronan’s dreams are made of: the hot, heavy ones tinged with red that Ronan wakes up from either hard or already soaking wet through his boxers. Or both, and Ronan barely has the chance to slide his fingers under the covers before his back is arching and his mouth opens and he can’t even attempt to cover his gasp _— Adam —_ when he spills out over his fingers. _Those_ dreams. 

And this seems to be going down a similar track, seems to until Adam sucks in a way he’d never done while Ronan’s eyes were closed, and his nails scratch up Adam’s scalp. His hips tilt up on their own accord and he can hear himself muttering something — _Adam, oh my god, Adam, shit, I’m gonna_ — and then Adam glances up, meets Ronan’s eyes through his bangs, and oh _fuck,_ that’s it, that’s enough. Every muscle in Ronan’s body clenches for a second and releases, oh god, the release. He knows his mouth is caught in a groan but he can’t really hear it, partly because of the orgasm rocking through his spine and because Adam’s still on him, still lapping up what’s left, fingers still dancing. Ronan reaches and pushes at Adam’s shoulders, and Adam moves to flop beside Ronan on the bed. 

“Hey, don’t fall asleep on me idiot,” Ronan says. “You haven’t gotten off yet.” 

Adam grumbles something about sleeping it off, but Ronan’s not having any of that. He wraps his hands around Adam’s wrists and holds them above his head, back arching so he can dip his neck to kiss him. 

Adam knows he’s grinning, he really can’t help it, and his doesn’t smile doesn’t go anywhere when Ronan moves his lips to his jaw, starts giving him those sloppy kisses he’s so famous for. 

“What d’you want?” Ronan says, teeth still on the skin of Adam’s neck. “Hands? Mouth?” 

“Doesn’t really matter. You don’t have to do anything,” Adam says quietly. 

“Yeah, I do.” 

And that’s all Ronan says before maneuvers his hand down to pull off Adam’s boxers. His fingers are loose when they come back up to touch him, and Adam thrusts all on his own. He gasps quietly at the sensation, moving his hips in a rhythm that’s somehow both alien and all too familiar. He moves his hands to grab at something, anything, finally resting on the sharp angle of Ronan’s shoulder blades. Ronan’s moving too, shallow thrusts into Adam’s legs. 

“Jesus, Ronan, how’re you—” Adam starts before he’s cut off by a groan. “Wow, shit, I’m okay with this. _Shit.”_

Ronan’s mouthing at Adam’s neck again, moving his hips in time with the flick of his tongue at Adam’s jaw. 

It’s not long before both of them are panting, sweating messes, moving in time with each other and something larger than themselves. Both of them are on the edge, the sounds of skin moving against skin filling the empty room, when Ronan reaches his hand between them and Adam keens forward, practically sobbing at the touch and he’s gone. There’s gonna be angry red marks on Ronan’s back in the morning from Adam’s fingers, he’s holding on so so tightly. He’s never held so tightly onto anything, onto anyone, in his life. 

Ronan comes soon after, with his head buried in Adam’s shoulder and Adam’s hand soft and familiar on the small of his back. 

They fall asleep like that, wrapped up in one another. 

Neither one of them dream. 

**Author's Note:**

> I really hope that was okay I kind of rushed to get it published before I left... but you know how that goes. I hope you enjoyed somewhat!!
> 
> @emkayss on tumblr and @miramool on twitter (if you're interested in hearing me yell about all sorts of things.)


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